


Inept Method of Flirting

by AuthorGod



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Flirting, Based on a Tumblr Post, I'm Sorry, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Making Out, bad title, but here we are, it's not even great, this isn't poetry buddies, with a sofa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 03:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6222244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuthorGod/pseuds/AuthorGod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not Sherlock’s fault that he’s responsive to inept forms of flirtation, but nevertheless this is the reality. </p>
<p>-- </p>
<p>Based off of this Tumblr post by Thejohntent:   john and sherlock watching tv together when john just nudges sherlock with his elbow and sherlock nudges back and it just keeps happening until john is on top of sherlock</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inept Method of Flirting

Thank to [Thejohntent](http://thejohntent.tumblr.com/) for always posting fun, playful, headcanons.  You're the true MVP.

 

\----

 

 

When Sherlock was thirteen he’d developed an awfully inconvenient, and at the time, confusing, infatuation with the boy who sat next to him in musical theory class.  He wasn’t as smart as Sherlock, nor was he a gifted violinist despite occupying the principal chair, but Sherlock liked the way the boy squinted through his spectacles at the sheet music and the deliberate method in which he sawed away at his instrument.  So, he watched this average boy out of the corner of his eye and had no idea what it meant when he found himself being watched in turn.

Sherlock hadn’t been personally acquainted with being flirted  _ with,  _ and wasn’t sure how to respond when The Boy began nudging Sherlock’s shoe with his own in the middle of lessons.  He was insistent about it,  _ nudge nudge  _ flip about sheet music  _ nudge nudge,  _ his heel against Sherlock’s ankle.  Every time, Sherlock turned toward him with brow drawn upward, head cocked to the side in a silent  _ What?  _ The Boy would only shrug like he had no idea what Sherlock was on about.  After a couple days of this, Sherlock resolved to return the nudge out of frustration.  This time when The Boy started up with the nudging, Sherlock swiveled the ball of his foot and pushed back.  This seemed to please The Boy because he bit his bottom lip and smiled down at where their feet were now beginning to tangle. 

Every day this game would occur, and each time their feet would twist and cross, Sherlock would feel a gratifying burst of warmth in his cheeks.  The thing between Sherlock and The Boy never really proceeded past this juvenile method of flirtation, but the memory of it stuck with Sherlock well into adulthood.  

So, when John suddenly begins knocking feet with Sherlock under the table in Mrs Hudson’s dining room, Sherlock is understandably flustered.  John is busy nodding and smiling at Mrs. Hudson as she goes on about her niece’s latest cross-country escapade.  John is grinning in a way that says he is absolutely not thinking about Sherlock and how their feet are inexplicably tangled up below this scene of casual domesticity.  Sherlock thinks perhaps it was an accident because John doesn’t even flinch when Sherlock picks up his socked toes and uses them to firmly swipe under John’s heel, uprooting the whole foot and letting it fall with a soft  _ thunk  _ back onto Mrs. Hudson’s lino.  

“ _ Sherlock _ , your eggs are getting cold,” Mrs. Hudson frets and pours John another cup of tea.

“Yeah Sherlock,” John’s voice amused, his leg a steady warmth where he’s insinuated their calves in an adjacent line.  “Eat your eggs.”  

Sherlock presses the shiny back of the empty fork against his hot cheek.

\---

It’s a progression of sorts, Sherlock supposes, this development between him and John.  It’s not exactly conventional, Sherlock knows this even from his severely limited experience.  Hell, it’s probably not even in good taste, but the last person John attempted the courting ritual with turned out to be a lethal assassin so Sherlock figures there’s room for improvement here.  It’s not Sherlock’s fault that he’s responsive to inept forms of flirtation, but nevertheless this is the reality. 

The once unspoken “hands free unless emergency” rule has been, finally, deconstructed.  Which is an utter relief, Sherlock is naturally demonstrative and tactile and it’s enormously satisfying to watch John lick his bottom lip while Sherlock uses his knee to bump against John’s thigh in the cab on the way back from Croydon.

John pushes back, meets the force of Sherlock’s leg with his own until it somehow devolves into a quiet fight for dominance.  Whose leg will get tired first?  Whose leg will win all the space and the right to sprawl heavily against the other?  Sherlock has the advantage lengthwise, but John’s legs are strong.  His musculature is tidy and compact in a way that Sherlock finds bizarrely appealing.  

_ Nudge Nudge. _

It’s flirting, but it’s also a competition, and while Sherlock has never been overly rivalrous, John most certainly  _ is  _ naturally competitive _. _  Sherlock folds his hands up between his thighs, uses his forearms to stabilise his legs and help in the onslaught.

Of course John catches on immediately, tries to stifle a smile as he stares out the window.  “That’s cheating,” he says evenly, huffs as his leg quivers a bit in an effort to retake the lead.

“That’s winning,” Sherlock corrects, “Give up ye--” and all air evacuates his lungs in a ragged exhale as John reaches over and swats Sherlock’s folded hands out from between his legs.  John slides his fingers high onto Sherlock’s thigh and  _ squeezes.   _ The result is Sherlock going boneless.  John Watson gripping onto his thigh and smoothly sliding his cupped hand downward is easily the highlight of Sherlock’s entire week.  Possibly his whole life.  

John effortlessly pushes Sherlock’s knee over, spreads his legs in the space left behind, but leaves his hand on top of Sherlock’s thigh.

Once Sherlock has regained enough composure to speak again he mutters, “That’s cheating.” 

“Yup,” John draws circles on Sherlock’s leg with his index finger.

\---

_ Nudge nudge _

“You’re hand is in my way.”

“It’s not.”

“Yes it is, John.  Clearly it is.”  

“Maybe your hand is in  _ my  _ way ever think of that?”

“But mine was here first.”

“Can you prove it?”

By the time they finish arguing, John’s fingers are slotted between the soft gaps of Sherlock’s own.

\---

Sherlock has taken his spot on the sofa after dragging the telly across the room from its usual spot and sets it on the coffee table.  An insect kingdom programme is due on any minute, and it’s either watch that or stare impatiently at John while he takes forever to tap out a blog entry.  

David Attenborough is telling Sherlock something about Dawson’s Bees when John unceremoniously plunks himself down right next to Sherlock.  Their shoulders are touching, nearly overlapping, John’s hip is squashed up against Sherlock’s hip, and it’s all a bit of a tight squeeze.  Sherlock is certain this is intentional so he says nothing and watches while large, fuzzy bees burrow into the claypans of Australia.

With none of the preemptive shifting that typically gives John away, Sherlock’s documentary is rudely interrupted by John’s elbow poking him swiftly in the ribs.  It feels funny and makes Sherlock’s mouth twitch, enough of a jab that it’s obviously not an accident.  Sherlock tries not to smile, pinches his lips together instead, rolls his wrist until the bone gives a little  _ pop,  _ and throws out his right elbow until connects firmly between John’s seventh and eighth ribs.

Immediately John retaliates in the same manner, the point of his elbow is padded with a cotton jumper and not as effective as Sherlock’s exposed joint.  John sets his jaw, bottom lip puckering out in an endearing way, and he grinds his elbow against Sherlock’s side. Sherlock tries not laugh, but it tickles, so he fails at that and snorts unattractively, takes another dig at John’s ribs.  

The battle starts in earnest, one elbow shunting the other, while Sherlock silently huffs laughter and John’s face lights up in determination.  Sherlock’s right arm, John’s left arm, flapping about between them, bent at the elbow and spastic in a way that reminds Sherlock of hens fighting.  Sherlock decides to make a tactical counter in an attempt to unbalance John, leaning backward against the sofa cushions just as John’s momentum takes him sideways and forward, his torso a cozy weight crossing over Sherlock’s chest and lap.

The final effect is not what Sherlock  _ intended _ , but it certainly isn’t  _ regrettable.   _ Far from it.  John, suspiciously, seems to have anticipated all of this because somehow Sherlock goes from upright against the sofa, to lying flat on his back, his wrists pinned up over his head, and John Watson settled firmly on top of him.  He isn’t sure how he was manoevered in such a manner in three seconds flat, and doesn’t really care to ponder the physics of it at the moment.  Sherlock slowly unfurls his fingers in an invitation, John smiles and slides his own fingers across Sherlock’s palm until they’re holding hands.  

“Got ya,” John’s eyes are burning blue across Sherlock’s face, his mouth.  It does pleasantly funny things to Sherlock’s head, being under John’s scrutiny this way.

“Primary school called, they want their seduction techniques back ,” Sherlock sighs and brings his free leg up to hook over John’s hip.  “Your form is outdated.”

John ducks his head, “That  _ joke  _ is outdated,” he runs the tip of his nose across the angle of Sherlock’s cheek.  “Anyways, my form is fantastic.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, absently leans his head into John’s touch.  “Yes,  _ but  _ you could have just asked.  Might’ve saved me a bruised shin or two.”

The the vague scratch of John’s stubble retreats from Sherlock’s cheek, John raises his brows and faces Sherlock with open surprise.  “Really?  That would’ve worked?”

Sherlock shrugs, equally surprised that John finds this at all remarkable.  

“Huh..  Really.”  John seems to consider it for a moment, before taking a deep breath.  “Alright!  Allll- _ right _ .  So, in that case, you want to make out?”

_ Obviously  _ Sherlock doesn’t say because he’s not sure he can make his words come out properly, instead he nods several enthusiastic times in succession.  

“Thank  _ God, _ ” John breathes out, and then there’s his mouth pressed against Sherlock’s mouth.  John’s hands in Sherlock’s hands, tugging his hair, cupping his ears, and the  _ nudge nudge  _ of John’s tongue pressing softly against Sherlock’s tongue.

It’s the insistence of it all, the deliberate way John funnels his attention into kissing Sherlock like Sherlock is air and sustenance, it takes away any residual anxiety of not being wanted.  Really it’s rather lovely, Sherlock always suspected it would be, but when John dips his head to nip underneath Sherlock’s jaw and down his throat, Sherlock adjusts his review to include mind-shatteringly brilliant.  He doesn’t have much experience to base this conclusion from, he can easily count on one hand how many people he has kissed.  Three?  Those don’t really count, do they?  A 52 year old female, “black widow”, with a penchant for young impressionable men she would seduce and later guide them into accessory to murder whatever current wealthy husband she possessed.  

One misguided and overly-thankful client who showed up, much to Sherlock’s dismay, at Sherlock’s doorstep after he’d solved her case, wearing nothing but a coat and holding a bottle of champagne.  When Sherlock tried to let her down gently, she planted one right on Sherlock’s mouth, he’d fled the scene.  

He isn’t quite sure how people persist in mistaking him for a straight man.  There was Janine, which was for a case, and he honestly felt ashamed for using her even though she  _ must  _ have known.

He’s kissing John now, his first  _ actual  _ kiss, with someone he’s immensely attracted to, and now Sherlock finally feels it.  The  _ rightness _ , it’s real and wholesome and 169 centimeters tall and shaped like an occasionally cynical and antisocial ex-army doctor with sure hands and jabby elbows, and Sherlock loves him a lot.

John presses Sherlock down, gentles him in a way, he seems content to simply balance his body over Sherlock’s and snog him until Sherlock’s hands and legs lose some of their nervous energy.  His fingers quit their frenetic clutching at John’s hair, his jumper, his shoulders, and he slides them warmly underneath the hem of John’s jumper and lets them spread until they fit perfectly in the ruts between John’s ribs.  This seems to good for John, the bare skin touching bare skin underneath clothes, because he breathes harshly and reaches to grab at Sherlock’s hip with one hand.  He has to re-distribute his weight, has to rear back a bit between Sherlock’s legs which causes John to look and “Oh,” John says and licks his lips.  “I just--.”  John’s hand hovers motionlessly over Sherlock’s tented pants, the pink tip of his tongue still protruding ever so slightly.

“It’s okay,” Sherlock tries for casual, but his voice is too low and breathless to convincing.  

“I ought to take you to bed,” John’s fingers twitch.  “Or, I don’t know, dinner.  Maybe. Y’know?”

“You really want to move  _ now? _ ”

“God, that’s hot though,” John finally drops his hand, presses the soft material of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms tightly down until the outline of his cock is defined.  He seems to agree with Sherlock.  There will be plenty of time for beds and slowness and begging for one another, but later.  After.  Because right now Sherlock has to gasp for air.  Right now he has to scrabble his nails against the groove of John’s spine.  Right now he has to  _ nudge nudge  _ uncontrollably under John’s hands while John says, “ _ Christ,”  _ and “Mmhmm,” and nods, “Come on, yeah, Sherlock, come  _ on.   _ Good,” and “ _ Good.”   _ Until Sherlock is all chewed up vowels tumbling out of his open mouth, a shaking, punch drunk cocktail of fire and satisfaction.  Until John is collapsing with his full weight against Sherlock’s chest, his lips and the tip of his nose still caressing the curve of Sherlock’s ear. 

John kisses the sides of Sherlock’s mouth, just a feathery touch of his lips at the corners before he sits back a bit to look at Sherlock’s face.  He must like what he finds there because John smiles at him, the special smiles that reaches his eyes and shows off his straight teeth, the sharp little points of his canines that he uses to bite at his bottom lip when he’s confused.  

“Well,” John smoothes his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone, “That settles that.”

Sherlock blinks away some of the contented haziness of his mind.  “What?”

“You and I,” he gestures between their faces with a finger, “Us, now.”  He kisses Sherlock full on the mouth.  “I win.”

“Sure you do, John.”

“Of course I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is as fluffy as we're gonna get for now. At some point I am going to start posting a sorta-apocalypse lock..Where no one dies... but there will be some angst happening. So, in the meantime, I blapped this down in a day and it's not up to par, but here you go anyway!


End file.
